University of Virginia Library

ACT IV.

Scene.—The Castle.
Enter Orlando.
Orlando.
Oh treach'rous, treach'rous fate! not Wisdom's self,
Nor all the caution of most wily cunning,
Can see or move thy adamantine law:
Thou mock'st the height of human circumvention.
Who would have thought the villains could have fail'd?
Oh! shame on manhood! shame upon all daring!
What horrid sounds to hear the noisy gate
Thunder confusion to my joys!—But now—
What's to be done? I'll not resign the cup
Just as I've rais'd it to my thirsty lip.
Soft! let me see! this is the Friar's chamber—
Good father Jeremy! my holy father!
He stirs—this fearful boist'rous night at least
Hath giv'n me time to meditate my plan;
For Lucrece and her fools, all dripping wet,
Will take some time to change their drenched garments:
Meanwhile the Priest I'll sound upon the case
Of doubtful marriages, and if a flaw
We cannot find, we'll make a score between us.
He comes; now for a test of monkish virtue.—

Enter Jeremy.
Orl.
'Tis meet I crave thy pardon, holy father,
For this my interruption of thy rest.

Jer.
My Son! my rest hath long been interrupted:
For who could rest in such a night as this,
When all the elements appear at variance,
And seem to threaten a returning Chaos:—
The sins of men might hasten such event.

Orl.
Father! we are indeed a sinful race:
We all do sin, e'en when we know it sinful:
Though truly there be some who sin unknowing.

Jer.
The laws of Heav'n, unlike the laws of man,
Will take but small account of ignorance.

Orl.
Ah! holy Jeremy! what consolation
Do thy heav'nly spirit and eloquence
Convey to feeble consciences like mine!
To calm my anxious state of mind, good Father!
And lay the tempest that disturbs my soul,
Is the sad cause that calls thee from thy chamber.
I know thee well, good Jeremy! most holy,
Most learned, pious, and devout thou art:
On such a Saint dependence is secure.

Jer.
My Son; I am no better than I should be.

Orl.
Nay Jeremy!
Trust me I do not think a holier Saint
Will e'er be found among the whole communion:
And all thy modesty but adds to merit.
Father! there is a matter that disturbs
My wakeful conscience, and destroys my peace.

Jer.
Speak, Son! and let me ease thy loaded soul.

Orl.
Most holy Jeremy! what faith the Church,
And how doth she direct the man to act,
Who having ample reason to believe
His Consort long had rested in her grave,
And many years had past, and all the world
Believ'd her dead, had ta'en another wife,
When starts me up the former, and lays claim?

Jer.
The Church, my Son, can do whate'er she pleases.

Orl.
Most certainly she can; I know it well,
And he's a heretic who holds it other.
There are indeed some rash advent'rous Imps
Who wander round and preach a diff'rent doctrine,
Raising strange doubts about St. Peter's chair,
Th' infallibility of his Successor,
And vainly ridicule our holy worship.
But I have taught the world, thou know'st I have,
To argue right and holily; to know
And own the delegate of our religion.

Jer.
Thou hast defended well our holy faith.

Orl.
Oh Jeremy! my happiness is all
At stake, but thou might'st yet command the die.

Jer.
As how, my Lord?

Orl.
Why thus, good Jeremy!
I call'd thee to impart my dismal fate.
Father! alas! I have unknowing sinn'd
Against our holy Church, and my sad mind
Repenting of the deed of ignorance,
Sighs but to remedy the fatal act.
Thou knew'st Lucretia—

Jer.
Who? Thy former Lady?
Poor dame! she was a faithful penitent:
Too hard the penance she resolv'd to suffer,
For crimes that had their origin with thee.

Orl.
For crimes, my Father, fully done away
By absolution from thy sacred lips.

Jer.
Well, well, my Son! but what of thy lost consort?

Orl.
I'm told she's yet alive—

Jer.
Alive! my Lord!

Orl.
Nay, so I hear: did not the noisy knocking
Of her messenger invade thine ear?

Jer.
Most loudly—but alive! impossible.

Orl.
If I should see her, I could doubt mine eyes,
And call it sorcery.

Jer.
A miracle.

Orl.
Yet should it be, good Father! sure 'twere hard
Now to forego the bliss I just have tasted.
Nor should my Magdeline be made the victim—
Say! holy Jeremy!

Jer.
The case is awful,
And requires, my Son, great meditation.

Orl.
Thou can'st not but reflect the one hath been
The instrument herself of the disaster,
The other pure e'en as the path to Heav'n.

Jer.
When Passions lead, my Lord, the tongue is prompt,
And argument presents a thousand sources.—
Lucretia would do well to dedicate
Her future life to purer services.

Orl.
There rose the pious man in thought to Heav'n!
'Twere a most holy deed to fix her there:
So long an absence quite annuls our marriage.

Jer.
The absence truly hath been very long.

Orl.
And sure 'tis time she might forsake the world.

Jer.
But where, where is Lucretia?

Orl.
Oh my Father!
Forgive, forgive the little fraud I've practis'd,
To learn thy pious sentiment. Alas!
No messenger is come, but she herself—
She, she herself is come.

Jer.
Amazement!

Orl.
Hell!

Jer.
Is her arrival known?

Orl.
To very few.

Jer.
In such a night.—Came she alone, my Lord?

Orl.
Mark and a comely unknown youth came with her:
They have retir'd—but, Father, lose no time—
Lucretia, with intemp'rate joy, declares
She will not rest, though dying with fatigue,
Till she hath cloath'd herself, and spread around
Much unexpected bliss. Oh Jeremy!
Befriend the man who would for thee and faith
Spill the last drop of mortal blood: persuade,
Father! persuade her with the dawning day
To leave the Castle still to peace and joy,
And at Devotion's shrine seek peace herself.

Jer.
My Son! thy happiness I feel is mine.

Orl.
Then come, and let me show thee to her chamber.
I'll gain admittance for thee, then return,
And here impatient wait the wish'd success.

(Exeunt.
Scene opens and discovers Edward on a couch.
Edw.
My bones all ache, with this long march fatigu'd—
I die for sleep, but sleep denies her boon—
My patient Pilgrim rests as ill I fear:
Her Lord's but little better than a Devil:—
(Rises and comes forward.
My father's image haunts my weary brain—
Ah poor Lucretia! had Alonzo known thee,
Spite of thy single crime, he would have lov'd thee.
While silence reigns, and Sleep my wooing flies,
I'll meditate the deed my father doom'd me.
Come forth, thou sacred paper; now come forth!
Ah! precious, precious blood! thy sanguine hue
Is fled, but now I feel thee in my face,
That deeply crimsons at my shameful sloth.
Now for my fate—And now again I swear,
Swear by this relict of my father's blood,
Which thus with filial reverence I kiss,
Whate'er the deed he dooms, I will obey.—
(reads.
Ye gracious Powers! Lucretia is my mother!
Oh villain! wanton! Diabolical!
Yes he shall die, my Father, he shall die.

(The last three lines are expressed after he begins to read the paper, as mov'd by what he reads.)
Enter Mark.
Mark.
Oh gentle stranger!

Edw.
Sir, no stranger here,
Nor gentle shalt thou find me.—villain! villain!
He thou call'st thy Lord is a damn'd villain.

Mark.
A matchless Dev'l! not to be pair'd from Hell.

Edw.
Thither I'll send him ere he lives an hour.
Away! and let me meditate his fate.

Mark.
Would thou could'st remedy the fatal deed!
I came to tell thee what I find thou know'st.
My aged head is burden'd with the crime,
And bears me down, a well-intention'd victim.
Oh! would I had forsworn myself: good Edward!
Behold in me the wretched cause of all.

Edw.
Then Hell prepares its hottest chamber for thee.

Mark.
Alas! if rigid virtue be a sin—

Edw.
Yes! thou hast leagu'd with Lucrece all thy life:
My Father is the victim of your crimes—
Away! if thou would'st live: that hoary head
Averts my anger's edge, but haste away!
Destruction is awake, and thirsts for blood:
But first for stronger scented blood than thine.

Mark.
Now, by the Saints! young man, I scarcely know thee:
And never hast thou seen lost Magdeline.—
Poor Magdeline! alas! I might have sav'd her.

Edw.
Now what of Magdeline? no matter what—
Go! leave me to digest the villany,
And study my revenge—Orlando dies—

Mark.
I pity, Edward, thy distracted state:
Thou can'st not hate Orlando more than I.

Edw.
Thou know'st me not;
Nor till this moment did I know myself:
But now I feel the blood of Mortimer
Swell in my heart, and boil along my veins.

Mark.
Heard I aright? say Mortimer again.

Edw.
Mortimer, Mortimer—Know'st thou the sound?

Mark.
Art thou the son of Edward Mortimer?
It cannot be! such wonderful events
Defy the laws of Chance—

Edw.
But not of Heav'n:
I tell thee, 'tis the Law of Providence,
And through my Father's voice Heav'n speaks its will.
There, read conviction through my Father's blood.
(Mark takes the Paper and reads.)
“My name is Edward Mortimer—thy mother
Is alive, in Cornwall lives, in shameless
And avow'd adult'ry lives—Her name Lucretia:
Her base seducer is the Lord Orlando”—

Edw.
Notorious villain! wanton, wanton, Lucrece!

(Mark reads.)
“I never gave thy mother cause to hate me”—

Edw.
To leave a man like Mortimer for him!

(Mark reads.)
“Orlando tempted her beyond her reason:
For Reason scarce began to take the rein;
So young and artless was my poor Lucretia.
I sought revenge on honourable terms,
But Richard then possess'd the English throne,
Than whom a greater tyrant never reign'd:
Orlando was his friend and partizan.
I would have slain Orlando, but I found
Ruffians were set about to seek and murder me.
Thou wert the only child that Lucrece bore;
With thee I fled to France: our ship was lost:
Thou wert too young to bear it on thy mind:
I held thee fast, and bore thee safe to shore,
Then brought thee here to Milan, where thou know'st
We have acquired fame, friends, and fortune too.
Earl Richmond hath already conquer'd Richard—
To England now I'll go—but should I die
Before I reach the isle, let this instruct thee
While the villain lives thou hast not done
Thy Father's wish.”—

Edw.
Now am I Mortimer?

Mark.
Oh Heav'n! thy gracious will be done! 'tis thine!
Thy all directing finger points our fate—
I vouch the truth of what thy Father writes.

Edw.
My Father's truth did never need a voucher.

Mark.
We thought ye both had perish'd in the storm.
Trust me, Orlando soon shall bite a dagger.

Edw.
Damn him! I'll make him bite the ground.

Mark.
Oh Edward!
I never wrong'd, but always lov'd thy Father;
And thou mistak'st the meaning of my words.
Thy heart hath yet another woe to feel;
Suspicion plac'd it foremost in my thought,
And my first question damn'd me with the truth.
But, Edward! let us leave this spot of horror:
I'll lead thee through the cloister'd aisles, to where
Thy mother, in her anguish, ere she went,
Rais'd for her parted babes a Mausoleum.

Edw.
A solemn place, and fit for thoughts like mine—
There wilt thou counsel how to improve my vengeance

Mark.
I'll not oppose the justice of thy wrongs:
For 'tis the will of Heav'n oft-times inflicts
E'en in this world the punishment of crimes:
And interposes here to teach mankind
Enormous guilt may hasten retribution;
And thus in hearts corrupt keep awe awake.

(Exeunt.
Scene opens, and discovers Lucretia gracefully dressed, and Jeremy.
Luc.
I tell thee, Father, he's a wicked man.—
Oh! now I see the bottom of my fate,
And know the murd'rer that hath sought my blood.
Yes! I could dedicate my life to Heav'n:
But oh! it were an impious sacrifice,
That shameless villany might thrive the better.—
Let him again consult to take my life—
Is this my welcome? this my other bridal?
This the reward of my repentant tears?

Jer.
Lady! thy woes bring pity to my heart.

Luc.
Where is the dame that hath supplanted me?
Who is she? doth she know Lucretia lives?
Shame, shame upon them both! a worthless pair!
Where is old Mark? Give me my daughter, Mark!
And let us fly together from this scene.

Jer.
Good now! compose thy senses, lest they stray:
Alas! thou can'st not well bear more.

Luc.
Bear more!
Oh! let Orlando shrink—he too shall bear,
And wish at last, when we his reach escape,
He had again his daughter and his wife
To sooth the pangs of conscience—he shall bear—
The time will come—

Jer.
What daughter dost thou mean?

Luc.
That rests with me—as for this wanton dame,
Were she as fruitful as the springing grain,
He dies apace, and cannot hope to see
Another such as mine—Where is Orlando?
I'll see the wretch myself before I go.

Jer.
But let me see him first to urge thy right:
Perhaps his heart is not so lost, but yet
He may hear Reason's voice: I'll do my best.

Luc.
Go then—I will reserve myself awhile,
To pour the deluge of remorse upon him,
And, if I can, drown all his sins to death.

Jer.
May Heav'n preserve thy understanding, Lady!

(Exit.
Lucretia
alone, after a pause.
It must! of magnitude so great my guilt,
Life is too short to appease offended Heav'n.
Oh Thou! who mad'st this earth the path of proof,
Continue, oh! continue to inflict
Thy salutary chastisements! Add here
Pang to pang, and bitterness to sorrow!
That mingled with the little weight of virtue,
My heart so swol'n may draw the balance down,
And crime so purified may touch the beam.

(Exit.
Enter Orlando and Jeremy, meeting.
Orl.
Now, by my hopes! here comes the Priest! well Father!

Jer.
My Son? I've seen Lucretia.

Orl.
Is she willing?
Did'st thou persuade? will she devote her soul?
Oh! ease me from the rack of my suspense!

Jer.
Indeed I fear her senses are not right.

Orl.
So, hast thou gain'd th'advantage of her weakness?

Jer.
I feel the wrongs of thy most injur'd Lady,
And would redress, not heighten injury.

Orl.
'Sdeath! art thou mad?

Jer.
My Son! my Son! Lucretia
Is thy sole and lawful wife, howe'er
Compassion subtly plead for Magdeline;
Compassion, like an able orator,
On either side speaks loudly, but is join'd
Most audibly by Justice self for Lucrece.

Orl.
Do I hear right? sure thou mistak'st thy part?

Jer.
Sooth, as thou can'st, the woe of Magdeline:
I'll join to ease the scruples of her mind,
And teach how independent Virtue is
Of all the organs of mortality;
For nobly seated in the mind alone,
The conscious mind alone can guilt create;
And he that sees our inmost secrets there,
Acquits all sin that lacks the cordial will.
This may ease Magdeline; but for thy wife—

Orl.
How shall I vent my rage! Oh for a sword
To send this treach'rous Priest to Hell—Oh villain:
Thy boasted sanctity thou know'st, vile Priest,
Is all hypocrisy: thou hast abus'd
Our holy Faith with horrid superstitions.—
'Tis no spiritual, but a temp'ral case,
And, spite of thee, my will shall be obey'd.—
For this, thy whole fraternity repents:
There's not a Roman, but shall feel the blow.
Thou'st done an evil deed, St. Jeremy,
For thee, and thy co-hypocrites—'twill come—
Luther advances from the East—already
His doctrines are arriv'd; Priest! I'll further them—
Thou know'st my pow'r: your monast'ries are gone;
And e'en St. Peter trembles in his chair.—
Away! fly from my wrath, thou reptile wretch!

(Pushes him out.
Enter Lucretia.
Luc.
Where is this Lord? this arbiter of fate?
This great Orlando?—Oh! my Lord! your servant.
I come, by Father Jeremy's appointment,
To meet my loving Lord, my kind Orlando;
Who hath so studied my reception here,
And longs to embrace me on my bridal night.—
Now I am come, my Lord! what not a word?

Orl.
By Heav'n! she looks as beauteous as an angel,
And far excels whate'er she was before.

Luc.
Well may'st thou hide that shameless head, Orlando!—
What have I done? tell me, what have I done?
'Gainst thee I never sinn'd—'gainst Heav'n, indeed,
Full sorely sinn'd!—but 'twas for thee I sinn'd.—
Was't not enough to throw me from thy bed,
What could provoke thee to the thought of murder?

Orl.
No, on my soul, I never urg'd them to it.

Luc.
Thy tongue denies what yet thy looks confess.

Orl.
Nay, by the Heav'ns I swear!

Luc.
That Jeremy
Came not commission'd to exile me hence.

Orl.
Exile thee hence, Lucretia! where's the knave?
Oh shame upon the Priest! exile thee hence!
I'd lose my life before thou should'st go hence.—
I never saw thee half so fair before:—
Thou can'st not be the Pilgrim just arriv'd,
But some fair spirit now re-animating
All that was ever lovely in that form.
By Heav'n! I feel captivity return,
And chains more soft than when I saw thee first.
Thus let me welcome back such loveliness.

Luc.
Deceitful man!

Orl.
No: on my soul 'tis truth;
And all my former love comes rushing on me:
I sip th' intoxicating draught again,
And never more will think but of Lucretia.
Ah! where hast thou regain'd thy magic?

Luc.
Murder!

Orl.
By ev'ry saint I swear! I'm ignorant.

Luc.
Thy marriage:—wert thou ignorant of that,
When on the Forest road we met this even?

Orl.
Hear me, Lucretia!

Luc.
Wert thou ignorant
Of the good Friar's visit, and it's import?

Orl.
Hear me I pray—I sent indeed the Friar—
But 'twas to soften what I could not tell:
I meant to follow the sad tale myself;
To sooth, lament, and counsel with thee on't;
Then to pursue whate'er we thought were best.—
The bigot Monk—

Luc.
Melted with humanity,
And here return'd to urge the plea of Justice.—
I know't, my Lord! but where's the dame supplants me?
Yet—ah! poor Lady! she is innocent;
Nor knew the claim, that crept along the earth,
And hither slowly bent to her destruction.

Orl.
Plague on her! would I ne'er had seen the wretch?
My Love! thy pity will diminish greatly,
When thou reflect'st (I speak it to my shame)
She is the daughter of a Vassal merely;
And shall not think herself a loser by it.
Come, come Lucretia! and confess thyself,
That this event, in absence of an age,
Is not surprising. Had these charms been here,
I never could have been unfaithful to them.
For the aspiring wench we'll think no more:
She shall be satisfied; let us be happy.

Luc.
Satisfied! ill betide her if she be!
What can be satisfaction for dishonour?
Her Parents too—Alas! to think of them!
Can they be satisfied?

Orl.
Hast thou not heard?
Mark hath been silent on this head I find.
What! said he nothing on the subject to thee?

Luc.
Nothing: and yet I well remember now,
His words bore something of a mystery.

Orl.
Mysterious fool! had he been frank with me,
We had been sav'd these pangs, and he had sav'd,
What I suppose he thinks most valuable,
His daughter's chastity.—

Luc.
Daughter! what daughter?

Orl.
I know thou lov'st them, and wilt therefore pity.

Luc.
Avenging pow'rs!—Ye have not this in store—
Or if ye have, oh! rein up ev'ry organ!
Strike me with deafness! oh! let me not hear,
Lest I go mad, the name of Magdeline!
Yet if I must, come Monster! strike me dead;
Heav'n interposes not: complete thy work—
The sound of Magdeline will reach my heart.—

Orl.
'Tis Magdeline—but wherefore—
Lucretia kneeling.
Now, now hear me!
Now that the last most bitter draught is come—
If there's a grain of Justice left in Heav'n,
If all it's gall is not quite drain'd on me,
Pour the remainder on this Monster's head!
Invent above new tortures for the wretch!
Give him to feel the quickest pangs of conscience!
Open his eyes upon a gulf of fire!
Set Hell before him ev'ry step he takes!
Let angry spirits keep him ever wakeful!
And hideous Dev'ls distract him in his dreams!
Rob him of rest! appal his heart with fears!
Curse him with quickest sensibility!
And thus continue to him length of life!
That of the bitter cup he gave to me,
He too may drink! Oh for my child have mercy!
Let her not live to know her misery!
And curse the source and me in one sad breath!
Let not these eyes behold her while she lives!
But take her hence this night before she wakes!
Shut mortal sense! and let her wake in Heav'n!
Spare! spare her innocence the pangs of guilt!
Oh Death! dear Death! spread thy kind veil upon her!
Cover my child! and—and—and—

(Here expression fails, she falls back, and the Scene closes.